


as certain dark things are loved

by antithestral



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League: War
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Telepathic Bond, sort of... but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-22 14:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17664260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: [Post—Justice League: War]That split-second moment when Batman slips on Hal’s power ring has... someseriouslyunintended consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the much-abused sonnet xvii by pablo neruda.

It was after the battle with Darkseid. The crowd had thronged around them, cheering, whooping, filling the deserted Metropolis streets with noise. Briefly, Bruce thought about instating evacuation procedures in major cities, about dealing with local politicians who would make noises about creating fear and panic, about the palms that would have to be greased—

And then a kid from the crowd broke free of her father's grip and dashed across the three feet of empty space that had been miraculously maintained, and practically threw herself around Bruce's knee.

Bruce stared down, dumbfounded. Her grip was iron-tight, and all he could see was the top of her blonde head. He stroked the top of her head carefully. She was tinier than any of the Robins ever had been—it felt like a gust of wind would knock her over. Something tight and warm curled in his chest. She unwound her arms and her mother rushed forward.

"Thanks, Mr. Batman," the kid said, and then let her mother scoop her up with a blush and a stammered apology.

"It’s alright," Bruce said to the mother. "Don’t worry about it." he looked at the kid. "What’s your name?"

"Lizzie."

"You’re very welcome, Lizzie."

She beamed, a gap-toothed thousand watt smile, and they shuffled away quickly, retreating into the comfort of the crowd.

Bruce watched them walk away. The ache in his chest wouldn't go away. He should call Dick, he thought for the hundredth time. Bludhaven was awful on its best day. He should call Dick tonight. And Jason, he should—Crime Alley was no place to live—

Bruce signaled remotely for the Batwing, suddenly exhausted. On impulse, he looked back at the other heroes. Flash was waving to his public, the Cyborg kid looked a little shell-shocked. Diana and Superman were too busy pretending not to eye-fuck each other, but the Green Lantern— _Hal,_ Hal was staring at him, a quiet, wry twist to his mouth, a deep warmth in his eyes.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat, and he tore his eyes away. That suit really was—something else.

* * *

Afterwards, Bruce put it out his mind, as best as he could. There was Gotham to contend with, with its seething morass of drugs and crime and rabid villains - Scarecrow busted his way out of Arkham and managed to aerosolize a new strain of fear toxin in a packed stadium during a Knights' game, and Bruce caught a lungful of smoke before he was put out of commission and the kids stepped in to take him out, while the spectators went into a fucking stampede, Riot Control nowhere in sight.

It was Hal who eventually found him, a month after the Darkseid event, three days after the riot. A US navy submarine had been taken out by something in the northern Pacific, near the Ring Of Fire. It was Hal who bullied him into attending the first JL meeting, even if he did it by crashing the middle of his jewel heist and derailing months of investigative work.

There was a massive, ugly bruise covering the right side of his face, which Bruce didn't notice in Gotham, didn't notice the whole trip to the so-called 'League's' government-assigned HQ, not until they had arrived at the conference room, which, somewhat worryingly, looked like a set piece ripped right out of Dr. Strangelove.

"I know we're supposed to be discussing the sub," Barry blurted out halfway through cyborg's brief, while Bruce tried not to stare at Hal’s mangled face with limited success, "but dude—what the fruck."

"I hit a door," Hal muttered, with a jerky shrug.

"How many _times_?" Barry asked.

"Jesus, look, the shielding on my suit isn't impenetrable, alright?" He crossed his arms over his chest. It made the muscles in his shoulder bunch up. Bruce turned back to the Pacific map on the screen. "There was a firefight in Epsilon Sector three days back. I—got distracted—I don't know, a bad adrenaline spike. I looked away when I shouldn't have, and I paid for it."

That didn't sound like him.

"That sounds like your style," Bruce said flatly. "Poor focus, and non-existent impulse control. How’s the arm doing, flyboy."

But he closed his eyes beneath the cowl, and saw Hal fly into Darkseid's face, saw him take a hit and get tossed into the air, heard the wet, loud crunch of bone and blood as his arm snapped.

When he opened his eyes, Hal was staring at him. Bruce had expected a glower, a smirk, a smart-ass retort, but he was just... looking, intense and silent, like Bruce was a puzzle he wanted to take apart.

Slowly.

Heat fisted hard and quick in his belly—Bruce fought the urge to shift in his chair, while his jockstrap grew just a little uncomfortable. Fuck. God _damn_ it.

"Welp, you're not the only one having a bad week," Barry piped up helpfully. "Captain Boomerang practically sawed my face off last week, and—hey Bats, didn't you have the thing with whatshisface last week too?"

"Scarecrow," Bruce supplied.

"Right! The fear toxin guy!"

"Fear toxin?" Hal repeated.

"He uses a synthetic, aerosolized formula to stimulate an aggravated panic response in his victims." Bruce could feel the ghost of it now, the wrenching helpless fear, his own body being turned against him, screams clawing at the insides of his mouth.

"He makes you feel... afraid," Hal said. There was a frown notched in his brow, and even despite the bruising, dark, mottled purple-black near the edges of the domino, fading yellow green against his cut-glass cheekbones, he was still...

 _'Beautiful,'_ the voice in Bruce's head said, quietly, tiredly, admitting the truth if only to himself. _'He's fucking beautiful. So you stay the hell away. You don't touch that. You don't ruin it.'_

Yes. He would stay away.

"Can we focus here?" Cyborg asked exasperatedly, from the other end of the table, and Bruce rotated his seat to face the screen. The side of his face felt extraordinarily warm. Hal was still watching him.


	2. Chapter 2

 

It was a few days after Dick, Barbara and Damian had rescued Bruce from Talia’s torture chamber—Christ, what she been thinking? And poor Damian, Jesus, as if the kid didn’t have enough issues of his own already—that Dick plopped down on the table Bruce was working at, obscuring the half the computer screens behind him, down in the Cave, the way he used to when he was little, and said, "Oh and the League called, while you were out."

Bruce tensed. Shit. "The League? What did I miss?"

"What? No. No you didn't miss anything, B, it wasn't—like that? It was, uh. The green one. The Lantern dude? He wanted to—I dunno, talk to you." Dick squinted at him. "You two friends or somethin'?"

"Or something," Bruce replied evenly. Hal. Hal had called? Why—was he—what if he was—

"Was he in trouble?"

Dick had a funny look on his face. "No," he said slowly. "He sounded fine. Just wanted to talk. He... was pretty insistent actually."

"What did you say."

"I said you were on-mission. Undercover. Couldn't chat." Dick paused, looking away, like he couldn't bear to meet Bruce's eye. Like he was... ashamed. "He asked if you'd been checking in. I said yes. I said you were—you were alright."

"Dick."

Dick hmm'd.

"Look at me."

The kid—Christ, he'd grown up, hadn't he? —obeyed.

"This wasn't your fault. This is on Talia, and on R'as most of all. You are not to blame, and neither is Damian nor Barbara." He reached up, and touched Dick's shoulder. The muscle was tense and hard and stiff. "I am not your responsibility. You are mine."

Dick was quiet. "I’m supposed to protect you," he said, finally, voice small and fragile and broken.

Bruce got up, then, to his feet, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder until Dick had slid off the tabletop and his face was buried against Bruce's chest, and they were hugging so tightly Bruce was sure he'd never let go. There was an unbearable tightness in his throat, a fist that he couldn't breathe around, and he didn't dare to speak, not then, not when there was a stinging in the back of his eyes and a glacier cracking apart in his ribs.

'Sons don't protect their fathers,' is what he wanted to say, 'and still, you've always protected me, so how do you think—how could you possibly think, that I would ever hold this against you, that I would ever be anything less than utterly grateful you entered my life, how do you think I would love you less, when you were the first thing I loved at a time when I thought I was dead, how could you, how could you.'

But he didn't dare to say the words, and so Bruce held him tighter, and let the moment rest.

* * *

 

Hal seemed surprised, at the next JL meeting, that Bruce had made it.

So surprised, in fact, that he didn't say anything when he caught sight of Batman, just stared, mouth slightly agape, like he'd been hit over the head.

"Robin said you called."

Hal clicked his jaw shut. "I—yeah. I did. You didn't call back."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "I didn't realize that was required."

And Hal smirked. "No, of course you didn't. Batman doesn't follow basic phone etiquette, look, here's my surprised face." but his smile dimmed almost immediately. "Do you remember—when we. When we fist met."

Bruce nodded, once. They were in the hallway just outside the conference room, they were early. Diana passed them by. Bruce nodded, Hal... Didn't. Didn't seem to notice her at all, which was strange.

"Remember the sewer? Where the parademon pulled his ISIS act?"

"Sure."

"Before—before that, you. Uh. You took my..."

"Ring."

"Right. Yeah." Hal was faintly pink, a light band of color across his nose and cheekbones. He looked like he was about to have a stroke. "Did you. I don't. What—I mean, to you, did that feel like anything?"

Feel like anything. Bruce narrowed his eyes. "What the hell is that supposed to mean."

Hal was standing against the wall, and Bruce stepped in closer. Bruce was taller than him, bigger than him, bigger than most people. It was intimidation tactics 101.

_'That's not it. You just want to stand closer. You just want to be in his space, breathe in his air. You want to rip that godawful uniform off, you want to put your goddamn hands all over him—'_

Bruce's heartbeat was thundering, his cock going from zero to hell-yes-what's-up in the three seconds of standing closer. Hal's eyes were wide, his breath coming in sharp, hard pants.

"Bruce," he said quietly, raggedly.

And Bruce imagined him saying his name, just like that, when they were naked, and it was dark, and Bruce had him speared on his cock, had his eyes rolling back into his head with every thrust. _'Bruce,'_ he might've had said, in that exact tone of voice, soft and harsh and needy, and Bruce would've given him anything, in that moment, _anything_ —

There was a hand on the back of his neck. His hands were gripping Hal’s waist, tight enough to hurt. A warm breath tickled along his jaw. Fuck, they were close. Fuck.

_'You don't touch him. You don't put your hands on him. Look at your sons. Look at Jason and Barbara. Look at what you've done to them. Everything you love is cursed.'_

Bruce shoved him back, pushed with his considerable strength, throwing him off. Hal slammed into the wall, hard, shell-shocked, too surprised to say a word.

"Sorry," Bruce whispered. His hands were shaking. Hal was still blinking at him, like the violence of his actions had not yet registered. "Sorry," he said, horrified at himself. This was his ally, his teammate, his friend. They had fought together, nearly died together. What the hell was wrong with him? "I can't do this to—with you."


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce hardly could dare to breathe, all the way back to Gotham. He peeled the batsuit off carelessly in the cave, and retreated to the cool comfort of his bedroom upstairs, stripped down to nothing once the door was locked, sat down on the edge of his bed like an old man, a shake in his joints that would not go away.

God damn.

God damn it all.

He shouldn't have—he'd sworn to himself he wouldn't—

 _'Weak,'_ that voice hissed. _'Weak, foolish, greedy, you stupid, stupid man.'_ it showed him Hal’s face, the second after the push, and called him a coward.

His league comm buzzed. Dammit, they were probably wondering where he'd gone off to.

"Batman," he said sharply, tapping the commlink.

"Bruce."

There really needed to be caller ID on this thing.

"Hal." His voice was sharp, sharper than he had intended.

"What’s wrong?" Hal asked.

"What." 

"Are you alright?"

Bruce tensed. "Am I—Jesus, Hal." He hunched lower, digging his feet into the soft, plush carpet, spine curving in shame. "I should be asking you that question."

"So ask me." 

"Ask you _what._ "

"Ask me if I'm alright."

"Are you. . ." _what are you doing whatareyoudoing_ "Are you alright?"

"I was. Until you left." Hal’s voice was low, dark, velvet-soft. It was curling in his belly, the sound of his voice, simmering in his veins like hot brandy. "I thought you were going to kiss me. Or did I imagine that?"

"No." His cock was twitching, filling up, Bruce could see, with a sort of distant horror. He had assaulted the man, and now he was getting off to the sound of his voice.

What the hell was wrong with him.

"Bruce," Hal was saying. "Bruce, baby, listen to me, listen to my voice. You there?"

Bruce nodded.

"Good, that's good." _How did he know. How did he..._ "Where are you right now?"

"Bed."

"Yeah? What're you wearing? I bet it's not much, huh? I bet you don't wear anything at all to bed. Am I right?"

"Hal. . ."

Hal chuckled, warm and low. "Hey, I wanted to know—back then, in the Hall, were you—you don't need to answer, but were you—It felt like you were. Hard."

"I—was."

A sharp, quick exhale. "Yeah? And what about now?"

". . .yes."

"Oh _fuck_ ," so quiet Bruce didn't know if it had even been meant for him. "Are you—right now, are you touching yourself?"

"No."

"Do it, then," Hal murmured, eager, hoarse, "come on, get your hand around that cock, tell me how you like it."

"Sl—" Bruce swallowed. The first touch of his palm to his cock felt... Too good almost, like lightning, jolted up his spine. He lay back on the bed, feet still on the ground, and stroked lightly, just around the head. "Slow."

"Yeah? We could do that, we could go as slow as you like, go all night, get you so hard you're dripping, get you so cranked you're begging for it. You could fuck me, if you, if you wanted—" and Hal was started to sound breathless too, and that was, god, so hot, the hottest thing, that Hal was getting off on just talking him up.

"I—god," Bruce whispered, eyes screwed shut, hand fisted around his cock, just a tight punishing grip, just there.

"You could fuck my mouth, baby, I’m so good with my mouth, I could take it all, I could—"

" _Hal_ ," Bruce whispered, something raw and fierce writhing in his chest. "Hal."

"Oh god, baby, I’m—just. Where are you? Right now, can I. Can I come to you. I can be there in a minute. I can—"

"Wayne Manor, Gotham. East wing, second floor."

* * *

 

Hal stumbled in through the wide French balcony doors, the green glow fading from his body as he walked in, ring thudding to the ground when he caught sight of Bruce, naked, hard, out of breath.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and in three strides he had covered the distance between them, buried his hand in Bruce's hair, slotted their mouths and chests and hips together, grinding his denim-covered bulge against Bruce's naked cock, and that hurt, it hurt, and Bruce bit hard into his mouth, hands gripping that perfect, gorgeous ass, working at the belt buckle and buttonfly and then Hal was stepping out of his goddamn jeans and tugging off his t-shirt, revealing miles of tanned, golden smooth skin, before he was stepping into Bruce's space again, touching his face, kissing and kissing like he needed it like air.

"God," he whispered, and dragged his lips along Bruce's jaw, licked along the shell of his ear, and took the lobe between his teeth, and Bruce could feel how hard he was, how hot, like flash-heated silk, and iron underneath, and it was all he could do, to clutch at his ass, rub their cocks together, "fuck, Bruce, do you—are you close—are you gonna come for me, baby—" walking them back into a wall, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

Bruce found the right angle for it, for gripping Hal right up close, so they could kiss, could pant into each others' mouths, so he could touch his hole, just rub a finger there, and Hal was puffing short, harsh breaths, saying, "yes, yes, _god_ , Bruce."

And Bruce was pushing the tip of his finger just past the rim, just a touch of firm pressure, and Hal was clutching his biceps, was shuddering, knees almost buckling as he came, all over his stomach, all over Bruce's hard cock, eyes rolling back, biting down hard on the thick, bulging muscle that connected Bruce's neck to his shoulder.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he was whispering, but Bruce was still clutching him, still holding on, still—oh god, still hard, and Hal said, "You wanna come, baby?" sleep-slurred and warm, kissing the soft corner of Bruce's mouth, wrapping a firm hand around Bruce's cock, jacking him off, easy and steady, slick from his own come, god, and it was the thought of it, of Hal’s come smearing all over his cock, of Hal rubbing his come into Bruce's cock like that had him crying out hoarsely, his face buried against Hal's throat, as he came and came.

* * *

Half an hour later, they still hadn't made it to the bed, but that didn't really matter much. The carpet was soft and warm, Hal laying between Bruce's thighs, face tucked into his wide, hard shoulder, tracing idle patterns across that beautiful, scarred chest.

"You were trying to ask me something," Bruce rumbled softly, and Hal wondered at that, at how he could feel Bruce's voice, the deep, bass vibration of it, through his skin.

"Mmm."

Bruce huffed a soft laugh, ran a possessive hand down Hal’s thigh, squeezed that long, defined line of pure muscle. Christ, he was gorgeous.

"Jordan," he murmured, Hal’s hair tickling his chin. "What did you want to ask me? About the ring?"

"S'not important. Just... Some weird stuff's been happening."

"Oh?"

Hal shifted up, kissed him, an achingly gentle brush that speared right into his heart, that made him catch that perfect mouth, kiss him, again, harder, wetter, until Hal was groaning, shifting in his lap, trying to straddle his thighs.

"No," Bruce laughed, though most of the blood in his body had been diverted directly to his cock, "no, come on, tell me."

Hal pressed their foreheads together. "Just... Last month, when I was in the Epsilon Quadrant—"

"—where you lost focus and got clocked in the face—"

"—right, okay asshole, except I _didn't_ though, is my point. It was like, out of nowhere, like someone had shot me up with adrenaline? It felt real, but it didn't—and then you said, that was the same time that you got dosed with some of that—"

"—fear toxin," Bruce finished. There was a sick hard feeling in his gut.

"Right, okay, and then, three days ago, when I called Robin, and he said you were on mission, but... But you weren't, were you?"

"I was. No. I was taken hostage."

Hal's grip tightened, palm hot and pressed right over Bruce's heart. "Torture," he said hoarsely, and Bruce nodded. "I felt it," he said. "It hurt... So bad. I nearly crashed an F-22 at work. It was—Jesus."

"You." there was something sticking in his throat, a hot bubbling stickiness. "You could feel it."

"Yeah." Hal’s lips drifted along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and desire shot lightning-bright through him. "I’m so sorry, baby."

"What else," Bruce choked out. "What else can you feel—"

"—fear, I can, are you afraid? Bruce."

Bruce shut his eyes.

It wasn't even difficult, was the thing. The pieces had all been laid out so neatly, so obviously, slotting together. Bruce remembered thinking, that first time they met, that there was no way someone like Hal would—would want someone like Bruce. 

And still— _still,_ the moment Hal had shown even the slightest hint of interest in him, the barest smidge of desire, Bruce had latched on to it like a fucking limpet, hadn't he? Feverishly, desperately. A parasitic need.

Pathetic.

 

Bruce thought about the way he felt, every time he looked at Hal, and how he could he _not_ , when Hal was—fearless, and bright, and burning with life, all those things Bruce didn't know how to be. How could Bruce not look at the sun, and _want._

And now it turned out, every time Bruce had felt the way he felt, it triggered an—an emotional response in Hal's system, it seemed like, from his description, an endorphin surge that mimicked whatever Bruce felt, a heady cocktail of serotonin and dopamine, except Hal wasn't.... He didn't **_feel_** any of things, did he?  Not really.

 

It was—some kind of, some kind of sick Pavlovian conditioning: fuck Bruce, and if Bruce felt good, so would Hal.

God.

What had he—

 _God_.

He brought his training to the fore; until his heartbeat was flat and even, his breathing controlled, his eyes dry and his chest empty, caved in, hollow.

"What else have you felt."

Hal was staring at him, horrified. "The way you felt, in the hallway," he said, cautiously. "You wanted to—I knew you wanted to kiss me, and I wanted it too—"

"Because I wore your ring, that first time we met." Since the beginning. He'd been doing _this_ to Hal since the very goddamn beginning. _'Everything you love is cursed.'_ "That's why this is happening. You can... You feel what I feel."

"Yeah, I think—I asked around a little. It's kind of... Extremely against regs, I think, letting someone else wear your ring, but there are. Stories. Legends. Old Lantern campfire stories. The kind that get passed around, so who even knows if they're—they sound like fucking fairytales." There was a palm around Bruce's shoulder, squeezing. " _Bruce._ "

But Bruce was getting to his feet, buck-ass nude, six feet plus of marble-hewn classical beauty, his eyes dead and hard and cold.

"Bruce," Hal said, getting up, slowly, but there was a tremor in his voice, like fear, or maybe heartbreak. "What the hell is going on."

"Get out of my house. Get out now."

* * *

And when he was gone, Bruce slid down to the floor, back against the wall, and sat there the whole night long, until the sun was coming up, and all his veins felt drained, and the taste of ash had settled in his mouth, like the aftermath of an armageddon.

He did not feel anything at all.

He made sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> remember to subscribe for updates, and hit kudos if you liked it.


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